Desperate Obsession
by Amethyst Asheryn
Summary: Unrevised. Currently a oneshot. enslavement by the Yeerks is horrible for normal people. But what about those people who were already struggling? What goes through the minds of the hosts that not even the Yeerks can fix?


A/N and background:

I've had this idea bouncing around in my head for a while, though I have no clue if I'll ever expand upon it. I'd love to, but Ii'll have to do some major planning. This is my attempt at an OC that is not a Mary-sue, and I'll work extremely hard at it – especially if I decide to expand.

So read on and enjoy.

(You are strange.)

(Yeah, I know that.)

(There have been very few of your kind to manage to scare away nearly a dozen Yeerks in a month.)

(I know that too! The last slug around here told me that.)

(And your name …) A pause as he examined my memories. (Michael.)

(MEE-chi-ell.) It's easy to correct them now, because they always get it wrong the first time. I thought only humans do that, but I suppose not. Even slugs from outer space make mistakes, I suppose. (It's German.)

(German?)

What the hell? Is this Yeerk mentally disabled or something? Surely it knows what a damn German is. (German. Stop pretending you care.)

I know they can hurt me. It's no secret now. A couple of them, near the beginning, tried to stop me from driving them up the wall. They only made it worse.

The Yeerk examines those memories, bringing to the surface of my mind raging, gripping anxiety, and watching his predecessors intensify it, trying to get me to calm down. He sees that their methods didn't work. He backs away.

I tune him out when he tells me his name, because I know I'll forget it anyhow. What does it matter, his name? They're all mind-controlling aliens, their names don't matter to me.

We leave the Yeerk pool complex, walking up the stairs and exiting into the McDonalds. Out through the kitchen doors, out the main entrance, back into the street and the crowds.

Right now, things are normal. I pull back into my own mind, dwelling on those hours when I could move again, move myself, turn my head, control my eyes. The Yeerk doesn't disturb me. I guess he's one of the nicer ones. Or maybe he just doesn't care.

--

I don't know how late it is, or maybe how early it is, when I am woken from a deep sleep. I glance around, but the lights are all out.

I think I hear a noise, downstairs. Did I lock the door? What if someone got in?

Is my family alright? _Oh no,_ I begin to think, unbidden, intrusive anxiety rushing up to claim me. _Oh no. What if I forgot to lock the door? This isn't the best neighborhood. Anyone could just walk in. Oh no. Oh no._

I try to move. I struggle with myself, with my unresponsive body, before realizing that I will not be able to move anyhow. The anxiety bubbles higher, expanding with my immobility. I can't remember if I locked the front door or not. The noise downstairs has stopped, but that doesn't mean anything.

I lie there in the dark, trying to recall, desperately, what I had done that evening.

Nothing.

(Michael?) The voice in my head startles me, but provides momentary relief.

I don't remember his name. The Yeerk, that's who he is. My frantic thoughts and attempts for control have startled him out of whatever he considers sleep. (What's wrong?)

But I know he knows, and I don't know why he's asked. (The door,) I say through gritted mental teeth.

He sighs in my head. (I think I know why my fellows didn't want you as a host. Yes, it is locked.)

(But what if it isn't? I have to check!)

(I locked it earlier this evening, before we went to bed. Be quiet.)

But I don't remember that. I don't. I have to check, if only to alleviate this insane, raging anxiety, this feeling that something bad is coming unless I do something, fast.

(What if you didn't?)

(I did! Be quiet!) However nice this Yeerk is, he has a short temper.

(No! I have to check, I have to!) That's okay though, because so do I.

(You can't unless I let you.)

I will _not_ say please. I'm not going to beg. But it nags, and it nags, growing inside me, worrying me, consuming my every thought. Have to check.

I try to push it away. The Yeerk turns onto his (my?) side, and I desperately try to ignore the images that rush at me. The thoughts, the feelings. Well, the feeling. That all-consuming feeling of anxiety that won't leave me alone.

Push it away, don't think about it.

But even as I do, it gets stronger. I can't push it away, it's too big for me to press back. Have to check.

(Stop worrying!)

But I have to check. It's almost graduated into panic now – I have to make sure, make sure we locked the front door. _Have to._

(Michael. I locked the door. If you are not quiet, I will make you be quiet myself!)

Try. Just try, because that's not possible. They've tried before, it doesn't work. (Wish you could,) I mutter cynically. What if rapists get in? I know they roam around here. Or maybe someone who hates my dad, because a lot of people hate my dad. Rapists or murderers or thieves, and we could all wake up in the morning robbed blind, or dead, or –

Before the night is over, the Yeerk has decided that he doesn't want to deal with me, either.

I am back in the Yeerk pool by morning, shut in one of the host cages, savoring the freedom I have, even if it is only temporary. And I hate this, hate it more than anything – hate not being able to sleep at night. Hate lying awake for hours on end, trying to push back those thoughts and images, trying to sleep again, because what else can I do to alleviate the all-consuming anxiety?

But at the same time, while it's tearing me apart, driving me insane, I know it's helping me. I'm one of the lucky ones. I get more time in control of my own body than many other Controllers do, after all.

I'm one of the lucky ones. But still, now, sitting in this cage and waiting for my newest Yeerk, I think I would rather do without this special luck.

I can deal with the Yeerks, I suppose. Drive them crazy, yell and scream and rave all day, make it hell for them to stay inside my head.

And I can deal with the images. Can deal with padding downstairs at three in the morning in shorts and bare feet, just to get rid of the horrible anxiety and insane images that plague me when I can't sleep.

But I can't deal with them both. I can't deal with the helplessness, the immobility, and the plaguing thoughts and feelings all at once. I'd rather live enslaved by the Yeerks or in the grip of this disorder for all the days of my life than survive, day by day, with both.

A/N: Just in case it's hard to tell, Michael has OCD. That's why it's hard for the Yeerks, because a lot of the time, Michael's thoughts are taken up by these obsessions (worrying about his family's health/well being, worrying about murderers/bad people entering his house, worrying about whether he's turned things off and/or locked things up) and compulsions (double/tripple checking things to make sure they're locked/turned off, or visiting his family/friends to make sure they're still alright.) It bugs the Yeerks as much as it bugs Michael, since the inability to act on his compulsions makes the stress and anxiety levels rise, upsetting Michael and the Yeerk in his head.

To keep this author's note from being longer than the story itself, PM me if you'd like a more detailed explanation of how I think this would work.


End file.
